The student journalists were treated to a keynote speech by Jeff Greer, a Post sportswriter, who told students about how he knew he wanted to be a sports journalist at the age of 5.

Because we’ve gotten such good feedback about Greer’s speech, we’ve reprinted a portion of it here, with his permission:

I want to talk to you guys about four different things today, and they’ll come up throughout my time with you. My girlfriend has a little sister who is 17, a junior in high school. Not only do I spend approximately five minutes a day trying to convince her to attend my alma mater, the University of Pittsburgh, but I also try to impart what little wisdom I have. I am still young after all.

First, find something you love. Find something you absolutely want to do. It doesn’t have to be now. It doesn’t have to have already happened. I was lucky to figure out my passion around age 5. Hunt for it. Find it. And when you figure out what you love, never, EVER take no for an answer in your pursuit of that passion.

Second, find someone who will be in your corner, who will encourage you and fight for you and push you. It may not be your mom or dad, like it was for me, but someone along the way will fight for you if you show them it’s worth it. I promise you.
Third, as you go along the hunt to get what you want and do what you want in life, career-wise or just in your personal life, step outside your comfort zone as you go.

I’m a sports guy. I’ve spent hours in book stores reading about football strategy and basketball drills. But I’ve also covered a presidential debate, I’ve covered election day. When I was in Washington, D.C., after college, I wrote about education. The heck do I know about any of that? So challenge yourself. You can do what you love as much as you want, but if you really test yourself from time to time with something else, it’ll make you love your passion even more, and it’ll make you better at it.

Last thing is, hustle. Hustle, hustle, hustle. You know those T-shirts you always see people wearing at the gym or out running that say “Hard work beats talent when talent doesn’t work hard”? I roll my eyes at them, maybe throw out a smug grin. But those shirts are right. Hard work always wins. Every single time. And that doesn’t mean always putting in long hours or getting there early and staying late. Hard work doesn’t have a punch clock. Hard work is about effort, it’s about how much concentration and focus you put into what you do. And if you really love what you’re doing, then you should never have a problem working at it. It’s how I put just as much effort into writing a softball story as I do an NBA Finals story.

You know, my dad’s a minister, which means every single Sunday of my childhood, as far back as I can remember, I talked to everyone after church. Grandmas, moms, dads, grandpas, janitors, deacons, organists, violinists, singers, choir directors, college kids, high school kids.

Everyone.

We had to. We were faces of the church, even though all I ever wanted to do was listen to the Patriots games on the radio.

In those conversations, every now and again, the whole Jeff-is-kinda-weird thing came up.

I’d hide away some Sundays with a notebook and a few dice. He invented ways to simulate sports using dice, my mom would tell them. I promise he isn’t gambling.

We’d have people over to our house and I’d be outside, playing basketball or football or soccer or street hockey. He wants to be a sports broadcaster, my mom said. I promise he’s not just talking to himself while he plays sports.

Now, that second one always got the same response:

“Well that’s an awfully tough profession to get into. You really think you can do that? What about being a lawyer or a doctor? You’re a smart boy.”

I’m from New England. We have a reputation for not being all that nice, and I used to bristle at that stereotype because I’m a pretty nice guy. But now that I think about it, an elderly woman telling a 10-year-old that his dreams were awfully challenging – that’s pretty mean, right?

Those weren’t the first nos that I heard, and they won’t be the last. The editor in chief at the student newspaper at my college laughed at me when I came in to find out if I’d gotten the writing job I applied for.

I got rejection letters from more than 20 newspapers when I applied for internships my junior year of college.

But that didn’t really faze me, though I did spend a few nights questioning myself. Instead I’d write. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. I wrote about my dad’s mustache once. It was a thousand words. I wrote about my teddy bear, who still comes on every road trip with me. I wrote about anything and everything, as often as I could. I’d spend 15 minutes on a paragraph. Sometimes I was so focused on these exercises that I’d forget to do my homework. I mean, don’t go that far, guys. Do your homework. Or get really, really good at excuses, like I was when I was your age.

By my senior year, I went home for Christmas break and I sat down with my dad. Now, my dad is my dude. He is the absolute man. I wrote about his mustache. That’s how cool I think he is.

Anyway, I said, Dad, I need to put together clips of my best articles. I need to put together my resume. I need to put together a good cover letter. And then I need to send that information out to as many newspapers as possible. That’s how you get a newspaper job, Dad.

And the reason I bring up my Dad is because everybody needs someone like my Dad. Someone who rides shotgun on the drive for your dream. Someone who says yes when everyone else says no.

So my dad and I piled into the car and drove to … church. Yup, church. Shocker, right? And I’m really hanging him out to dry on this one, but we used the church’s copy machine. We printed out close to a thousand pieces of paper. This is back when it was frowned upon to email people your stories and resume. Now I feel old.
I sent out 94 packets. Ninety-four.

Guess how many rejected me or just never called me back?

You guessed it. Ninety-four.

But I kept hustling. I stuck to what I knew, that if I worked really hard and kept a positive attitude and was nice to everyone along the way, something would pop up.
One day in April 2010, Dave Tepps called me. Dave’s the sports editor at the Palm Beach Post, and I’d applied for the job I have now. He said yes.

In that moment, right after I hung up with Dave, I finally had felt like I’d made it. It wasn’t the end goal. No, that’s writing for maybe Sports Illustrated or the New York Times or the Washington Post. But it was the biggest yes I’d ever heard.

When you have passion and desire for something, you need to want it so bad you can take a bunch of nos in exchange for one yes.

I know a lot of you in here today won’t become journalists. I’m OK with that. Be a lawyer. Be a doctor. Be a teacher. Be a nurse. Find what drives you. Find people who help you, who say yes. Challenge yourself. Hustle hard.

I was lucky. Not many people know what they want to do when they’re 50, let alone 5, like me. I was lucky because I had a brother who wanted to be a doctor when he was still a kid. He’s a doctor now. I was lucky because I didn’t have to search too far for someone to say yes.

I remember how I felt standing on the field as the confetti fell at the college football national championship game in January. I remember how I felt at the presidential debate down in Boca.

I remember how I feel every time I check off something on my journalist bucket list. And I think back to all those people who told me I had no shot, or that I wasn’t good enough, or that it was too tough of a field. I don’t hold it against them. I’m not mad at them. I’m thrilled that they gave me the fuel I needed to keep chasing a yes or two.
I saw a documentary recently where a famous basketball coach said, “Nothing can happen if not first a dream.”

If you have that dream, if you have that passion, you don’t stop fighting for it until you’ve got it. You never, EVER take no as a final answer. You find people who will help you get there. You take on challenges outside your comfort zone. And you hustle. Because hard work and hustle will always win.